incurable lover of the grotesque
by rapunzelwithascalpel
Summary: "If I could remember you Stanford, in one moment for the rest of eternity. I would pick this one." [Billford]


The sight that welcomed Ford through the reflection in the glass of his watch nearly sprung him off his seat. He was still at his desk, that much had not changed, his surroundings however…were surreal; a wide empty space that appeared to have no end, extending indefinitely towards the unknown. Every direction Ford looked is sky, a flamed sky, with scarlet hues dominating and illuminating the alleged horizon. An oppressive atmosphere thickened the air, and left Ford agitated.

Ford concluded he must be dreaming although this was not the mindscape- or rather, it was not _his_ mindscape.

In the midst of surveying the area, an anomaly present beneath his feet captured his attention. Below, a pool of blackness, akin to a rain puddle, had formed; but the substance, whatever it was, was dark to the point of reflecting no light at all.  
As Ford gazed into it, the sensation of being sucked in began to overwhelm him. While his eyes strained to comprehend the ominous sight, black tendrils emerged from the pool, intertwining around his chair and travelling upwards towards him. From the ends, bloomed black humanoid hands.

They grabbed and held onto him, pulling him gently backwards as he felt his chair disappear beneath him. He floated mid-air now, barely supported only by the monstrous hands. They held him with caution, their touches intimate, as one would hold something precious.

Ford did not struggle for whatever these hands were, their gropes made an effort to communicate that they meant him no harm- he'd even go as far as to call them _polite_.

"Hiya Stanford! Looks like you dozed off there."

Greeted by Bill's voice, Ford felt himself ease up. This was not a nightmare then, though he rarely had those since his partnership with Bill had been established: one of the many perks that came with being allied to a creature who reigned over the domain of dreams.

Ford turned his head in the voice's direction, but instantly found himself greeted face-to-face by an unfamiliar young man who hovered beside him. Their shoulders touched but the man's physical body seemed to go unfelt.

The face was unrecognizable but the presence was unmistakable.

Bill Cipher.

"Ah, seems I must have. Hello…Bill." The confusion in Ford's face didn't go ignored nor unanswered by his apprentice.

"Ha, like my new look, Fordsie? Trying a little something different."

Bill's new face was, for lack of better term, absolutely strange. It was as though someone attempted to sculpt a beautiful face but misunderstood the definition of beauty. It was striking but the utter obscurity of it was what made it attractive to the eye.

Possessing many anachronistic qualities was one of the more fascinating aspects of this new physical appearance; eyes decorated with cosmetics in a style reminiscent of what ancient Egyptians wore, Ford has seen it plenty in history books; and there countless gold piercings in Bill's left ear; intricate and looking nothing like modern counterparts- the impression they left was rough, primal and painful.

Despite this, the composition not only harmonized but to an extent, suited Bill. None of the archaic accessories detracted from a very obvious refined, aristocratic demeanour that shone through no matter the action Bill took.

"It's…something else indeed." Ford squinted his eyes as he continued to mentally dissect the aspects of Bill's new design. His furrowed brows eventually loosened as he chuckled. "You now look a lot more like the cliché idea of a muse."

"A young, uh beautiful youth. "Ford continued, unsure if his word usage was entirely true to his visual experience. "Although the youth is normally portrayed as a woman."

"Easy there, Sixer. This isn't the time for you to discuss your little fantasies."

"Ha! A man may dream, may he not?" Ford joked, a sheepish smile settling onto his face. _Really now._

"And don't think I didn't notice your hesitancy at using the word 'Beautiful' there, Fordsie." Bill did an elaborate hand gesture in front of his face, "So, why don't you go ahead and tell me what you really think of this body? Don't hold back now, kid, I can take it."

Bill's voice was far more expressive than his face. An eerie smirk sat perpetually upon it, regardless of the change in his voice, with unnaturally yellow eyes that, to Ford, resembled those of a predator at rest. They contrasted with Bill's tanned skin which donned a simple black suit with a loud yellow shirt and black bowtie.

After more introspection, truthfully, he likened it to a poorly put together vessel. It seemed to be missing something crucial but Ford could not place _what_.

"If you want my honest opinion, Bill, this form doesn't truly express you."

The answer pleased Bill, his voice going higher as he spoke, "Ha! Did I mention you're the smartest guy I know, Ford?"

The flattery brought an immediate smile to Ford's face but the unsettling feeling remained. Rather than a human form, perhaps Bill merely had the frame of a human, a frame which held his true form, condensed- as one would store apples in a watermelon-shaped box.

Yes, such an expression was the closest Ford could get to describing this body. Not human, not the shape of a human, but rather a _literal meat suit_.

"Well, I may have heard that _once or twice_ , but if you are the one making the claim then it certainly must be true, Bill." Ford said, attempting to match Bill's playful tone. The muse raised an eyebrow, a mysterious smile replacing the smirk, and leaned closer to invade more of Ford's personal space.  
He was incredibly close now, and Ford noticed the slits of his pupils were larger than usual—Were Bill's pupils dilated?

 _Peculiar…_

"Hey, you know I don't lie, Ford. Especially not to my _partner in crime_." One of Bill's own hands snaked around Ford's neck suggestively, and a moment of silence between them accompanied the action. Excessive affectionate gestures by Bill were frequent and Ford never read too much into them.

"So what's this about then, Bill? A trial run up for a special occasion? Or perhaps just experimentation with different possible forms?"

"The latter, maybe the former? Can't give away the plot details, Fordsie!" Both of Ford's cheeks were cupped by Bill's free hand, he squeezed them and Ford's face distorted comically. The leather was cold, a cold Ford would remember when he woke up.

By now, all thoughts of Bill's body being a mere spectre for show had left.

"You gotta learn to relax, Stanford. You've been lookin' like hell lately, kid." Following Bill's words, the odd black hands applied light pressure to Ford's body; it wasn't quite a massage but felt good regardless- the power of the mindscape.  
But Ford didn't see the point- what occurred to his body here would not carry over. Even if the tension in his muscles was relieved, it would do him no good in reality.

"I wanted to be a pal, and make you feel better, even if it's really only a fleeting illusion that has no hold in the real world—but whoa, I'm being a killjoy here, ignore me!" Bill said, reading Ford's mind. Pressure from the touches increased coupled with circling movements, and now it began to feel more like a massage. The kneading of the muscles, particularly in his back, felt amazing.

"Then I will gladly accept your hospitality."

"Of course you will! Welcome to Bill's Spa Resort, a la incomprehensible powers beyond your capacity! Now relax, Stanford! Relax!"

Taking Bill's advice, Ford eased up and relaxed into the bed of hands.

The hands continued, no place neglected. Tension in his neck fought back at the touches but succumbed soon enough. Ford assumed it to the combination of stimulation and Bill's magic as knots, especially the ones in Ford's body, rarely surrendered so quickly.

Hard presses in the crooks of his shoulder-blades, precise needled presses up and down his spine; as soon as they spent too much time on a single area, they diffused, encompassing all close neighbouring areas.

As a lone set massaged at his inner thigh, one of them indirectly made contact with his crotch. He felt sudden embarrassment, knowing how ridiculous the human body was prone to acting at the slightly touch. This wasn't reality but the mind behaved accordingly.

The mind was a powerful thing.

As if the sudden touch had alerted the hands to that area, they seized both legs at the inner thigh and began giving possessive squeezes. They travelled and touched everywhere except his direct crotch, yet always came dangerously close while managing to evade the area entirely.

Ford involuntary tensed; he wasn't one for such intimate physical contact.

"Something wrong, Sixer? This is supposed loosen you up, pal. Not get you all worked up."

Ah yes, Bill wasn't human. It's not as if Bill realized these hands were touching in a _very_ inappropriate manner, and Ford wondered if he spoke it would paint him as the pervert; considering Bill had no such intentions, and to interpret it as such would say more about himself than his innocent muse.

"Should I stop, Ford? Don't wanna over-stay my welcome here and if you're uncomfortable…"

Ford quickly interrupted Bill, "No no—I appreciate you trying to make me feel better. I assure you, I am fine. I am simply…unaccustomed to such… _intensity_."

 _There was no need to be ungrateful over a little misunderstanding, after all._

"I trust you, Bill."

"Good to hear. Don't be afraid to give me a little direction, Ford. I'm at your service, after all!" There was no change in Bill's face yet again, leaving him unreadable to Ford.

Ford, once again, willed himself to relax, releasing a breath he'd held in without realizing.

Fingers played with his hair, running through it. There was an unmistakable tenderness in the way his curls were caressed. Ford could not remember the last time, or if anyone had ever, touched him like this; it was more than friendly, on the cusp of loving. Every so often, the fingers would pause, partake in a light scalp massage, and return to petting his hair.

Melodic circular movements upon his chest reminded him of touching that occurred during pillow-talk, by one's lover as they laid on one's chest. The hands, once shy to touch his crotch, had now fully embraced the area.  
It was foreplay- Ford could not describe it any other way. These were not touches you'd utilise to relax the area, rather, they were _specifically to excite_ and heat the area. _To get the blood rushing to the area._

They were undeniably salacious, and becoming greedier with every passing second.

Was Bill unaccustomed to erotic touches, and had misinterpreted what they were meant to do and convey?

Impossible. Cipher was far too smart. He had unlimited knowledge—so what was the meaning of this then?

Ford could not help but start to squirm now, the red of the sky that once seemed angry now radiated passion.

"Watcha thinking there, Fordsie?" Ford had been lost in thought, he hadn't realized the hands on his crotch had been replaced with Bill's own hand. His muse stroked the area; yellow, _very dilated eyes_ never straying from Ford's now flushed face. Bill had huddled closer to Stanford now, nearly on top of him, his arm still wrapped his neck only it felt far more intrusive then it had before.

Suddenly, Ford felt incredibly self-conscious.

Bill leaned in close, and Ford expected a kiss—yet once Bill was close enough, he quickly pulled back, erupting in a fit of obscene giggles.

The magnitude of his circumstance hit him immediately; Bill was toying with him, and Ford had incredibly mixed feelings about it. It seemed more like experimentation, Bill eager to poke and prod a human to test their reactions. Or a prank, perhaps Bill found human sexuality amusing.

"I—" But Ford can't think of anything clever to say, he cannot think of anything at all, the utter confusion of Bill's actions left no wheel in his mind unturned as they attempted to make sense of what was occurring.

The pressure against his crotch became harder before turning into firm groping; Bill fingers sought to quantify what was beneath Ford's clothes and his body reacted accordingly to the attention. It was mortifying; the sight of himself becoming hard as the steadiness of Bill's cold breath upon his lower jaw pinked the skin.  
The alien hands ceased their massaging, and the touches no longer felt like those of hands; they now seemed to slither lewdly across his body and around his limbs.

He does not dare look at Bill's face, his shame preventing him and he shudders when he feels his muse nuzzled a sensitive area in the crook of his neck.

Before Ford can find the right words, Bill's hand deserted his crotch and rested upon his chest, pushing him further back into the mass of black things and he is engulfed, swallowed, further into a sultry darkness.

He sank; the distance between him and Bill grew and burning yellow eyes seemed to bid him farewell, but not without a parting gift- the phantom sensation of cold of leather beneath his clothing, tenderly stroking the skin.

 _"Something stirs in the shadowed spot of your mind, Stanford. And it quivers when it's confronted with what it desires."_

Ford opened his eyes, and found Bill sitting cross-legged upon his desk, peeking at him through a triangle he'd formed with his leather-clad fingers.

"If I had to pick one moment, Stanford, one moment to remember you by for the rest of eternity, I would pick this one." Bill gazed at Stanford through the triangle, and it's a look that comforts Ford. "You, and the way you're looking at me. I'd burn it into my own mindscape." Following the words, a set of hands curled around his waist, embracing him snugly.  
Bill's words stirred something in Ford; to be praised on such a level by an incomprehensible being, to be held as though he had a value no one else would ever thought to assign to him…

There are embarrassing words is on his lips but not his tongue. Emotions were so strange, irrational, hormonal and fleeting.—but he knows how he feels is real, yet best left up to another day; maybe once the portal was completed…

"And I have burned every inch of you upon all I own— be it intangible and tangible." He is referring to the countless drawings of bill, the tapestries, the statues—he sought to allow Bill to invade every part of his life, and to leave no territory unclaimed.

Bill reverted his original form before Ford's eyes, and as he scrutinized the familiar triangle body, he realized there had been an insidious intimacy in his muse coming to him in human form. Bill clearly never had any interest in being or resembling a human.

"So Fordsie, that was quite a wild ride, huh? You wanna wake up or do you wanna see how weird this can _really_ get?"

This body was the right one, the one he was accustomed to and the one he greatly preferred. Its charm was above that of human bodies and no human body could ever replicate it.

This is a body he could, and would say yes to.

"I shall consider it research, and who am I to deny my cursed human curiosity? It's taken me this far, after all." A smile creeps onto Ford's face. "You, as you are now, is my only condition for this to continue."

Bill's eyelid lowered, and a hand once again, this time ungloved, travelled beneath Ford's shirt.

This time, very _very_ welcomed.

* * *

When Ford awoke, he found a message inscribed on his hand:

 **Remember: until the end of time (your words not mine)**

 **Check your other hand**

On his other hand, he was met with a childish drawing of a turkey.


End file.
